The Forged Coupon, And Other Stories : Book 02, Chapter 10

1912

People

(1828 - 1910) ~ Father of Christian Anarchism : In 1861, during the second of his European tours, Tolstoy met with Proudhon, with whom he exchanged ideas. Inspired by the encounter, Tolstoy returned to Yasnaya Polyana to found thirteen schools that were the first attempt to implement a practical model of libertarian education. (From : Anarchy Archives.) • "You are surprised that soldiers are taught that it is right to kill people in certain cases and in war, while in the books admitted to be holy by those who so teach, there is nothing like such a permission..." (From : "Letter to a Non-Commissioned Officer," by Leo Tol....) • "Only by recognizing the land as just such an article of common possession as the sun and air will you be able, without bias and justly, to establish the ownership of land among all men, according to any of the existing projects or according to some new project composed or chosen by you in common." (From : "To the Working People," by Leo Tolstoy, Yasnaya P....) • "It is necessary that men should understand things as they are, should call them by their right names, and should know that an army is an instrument for killing, and that the enrollment and management of an army -- the very things which Kings, Emperors, and Presidents occupy themselves with so self-confidently -- is a preparation for murder." (From : "'Thou Shalt Not Kill'," by Leo Tolstoy, August 8,....)

THE wife of Peter Nikolaevich Sventizky, a tall and handsome woman, as
quiet and sleek as a well-fed heifer, had seen from her window how her
husband had been murdered and dragged away into the fields. The horror of
such a sight to Natalia Ivanovna was so intense—how could it be
otherwise?—that all her other feelings vanished. No sooner had the
crowd disappeared from view behind the garden fence, and the voices had
become still; no sooner had the barefooted Malania, their servant, run in
with her eyes starting out of her head, calling out in a voice more suited
to the proclamation of glad tidings the news that Peter Nikolaevich had
been murdered and thrown into the ravine, than Natalia Ivanovna felt that
behind her first sensation of horror, there was another sensation; a
feeling of joy at her deliverance from the tyrant, who through all the
nineteen years of their married life had made her work without a moment’s
rest. Her joy made her aghast; she did not confess it to herself, but hid
it the more from those around. When his mutilated, yellow and hairy body
was being washed and put into the coffin, she cried with horror, and wept
and sobbed. When the coroner—a special coroner for serious cases—came
and was taking her evidence, she noticed in the room, where the inquest
was taking place, two peasants in irons, who had been charged as the
principal culprits. One of them was an old man with a curly white beard,
and a calm and severe countenance. The other was rather young, of a gypsy
type, with bright eyes and curly disheveled hair. She declared that they
were the two men who had first seized hold of Peter Nikolaevich’s hands.
In spite of the gypsy-like peasant looking at her with his eyes glistening
from under his moving eyebrows, and saying reproachfully: “A great sin,
lady, it is. Remember your death hour!”—in spite of that, she did
not feel at all sorry for them. On the contrary, she began to hate them
during the inquest, and wished desperately to take revenge on her
husband’s murderers.

A month later, after the case, which was committed for trial by
court-martial, had ended in eight men being sentenced to hard labor, and
in two—the old man with the white beard, and the gypsy boy, as she
called the other—being condemned to be hanged, Natalia felt vaguely
uneasy. But unpleasant doubts soon pass away under the solemnity of a
trial. Since such high authorities considered that this was the right
thing to do, it must be right.

The execution was to take place in the village itself. One Sunday Malania
came home from church in her new dress and her new boots, and announced to
her mistress that the gallows were being erected, and that the hangman was
expected from Moscow on Wednesday. She also announced that the families of
the convicts were raging, and that their cries could be heard all over the
village.

Natalia Ivanovna did not go out of her house; she did not wish to see the
gallows and the people in the village; she only wanted what had to happen
to be over quickly. She only considered her own feelings, and did not care
for the convicts and their families.

On Tuesday the village constable called on Natalia Ivanovna. He was a
friend, and she offered him vodka and preserved mushrooms of her own
making. The constable, after eating a little, told her that the execution
was not to take place the next day.

“Why?”

“A very strange thing has happened. There is no hangman to be found. They
had one in Moscow, my son told me, but he has been reading the Gospels a
good deal and says: ‘I will not commit a murder.’ He had himself been
sentenced to hard labor for having committed a murder, and now he objects
to hang when the law orders him. He was threatened with flogging. ‘You may
flog me,’ he said, ‘but I won’t do it.’”

Natalia Ivanovna grew red and hot at the thought which suddenly came into
her head.

“Could not the death sentence be commuted now?”

“How so, since the judges have passed it? The Czar alone has the right of
amnesty.”

“But how would he know?”

“They have the right of appealing to him.”

“But it is on my account they are to die,” said that stupid woman, Natalia
Ivanovna. “And I forgive them.”

The constable laughed. “Well—send a petition to the Czar.”

“May I do it?”

“Of course you may.”

“But is it not too late?”

“Send it by telegram.”

“To the Czar himself?”

“To the Czar, if you like.”

The story of the hangman having refused to do his duty, and preferring to
take the flogging instead, suddenly changed the soul of Natalia Ivanovna.
The pity and the horror she felt the moment she heard that the peasants
were sentenced to death, could not be stifled now, but filled her whole
soul.

“Filip Vassilievich, my friend. Write that telegram for me. I want to
appeal to the Czar to pardon them.”

The constable shook his head. “I wonder whether that would not involve us
in trouble?”

“I do it upon my own responsibility. I will not mention your name.”

“Is not she a kind woman,” thought the constable. “Very kindhearted, to
be sure. If my wife had such a heart, our life would be a paradise,
instead of what it is now.” And he wrote the telegram,—“To his
Imperial Majesty, the Emperor. Your Majesty’s loyal subject, the widow of
Peter Nikolaevich Sventizky, murdered by the peasants, throws herself at
the sacred feet (this sentence, when he wrote it down, pleased the
constable himself most of all) of your Imperial Majesty, and implores you
to grant an amnesty to the peasants so and so, from such a province,
district, and village, who have been sentenced to death.”

The telegram was sent by the constable himself, and Natalia Ivanovna felt
relieved and happy. She had a feeling that since she, the widow of the
murdered man, had forgiven the murderers, and was applying for an amnesty,
the Czar could not possibly refuse it.